Spent the evening shooting-the-shit (mais pardon ma francais!) and putting back pints at a hidden alleyway pub in Holborn called Ye Olde Mitre dating back to 1547 (fifteen forty when-ven?!). ‘Twas a few hours well spent in the company of a man named John from San Juan, his wife Judy – graciously boasting hometowns of New Orleans, Dallas, Newport, Providence, Pensacola and Jacksonville to name a few – and their son Aaron, a young, gentle, handsome and intriguing architect-y sort currently hailing from Holloway Road, London.
Our common denominator? One perfectly planned kitchen in Vero Beach, Florida reigned over by none other than Taco Queen Viktoria.
Although distinguished by the third letter of their shared regal name, Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom and our dear Viktoria of Puerto Rico both ruled (and continue-to-rule) supreme over their people as doyennes of cultural affairs (in Viki’s case, both historical and pop, factual and not-so-factual).
And in a move some might consider an attempt at one-upping history’s longest reigning female monarch, Aunt Biki takes her cultural sophistication to the kitchen with the zealousness of an aristocrat to moats, unjustified expenses and champagne. Like HMQ she also takes tradition seriously. No summer (more specifically – no August) would be the same without roughly 18-25 of our closest friends and relatives shouldering in and shuffling for space around Viki’s kitchen island sharing and secreting tips of the trade. The trade of course being taco construction.
More on the specifics of that industry in a future post. For now, may I present the much anticipated taco pics Your Majesties…
*witness the carefully considered rigid outer shell corn-struction (patent pending) supporting floppy floury core in a stable, upright, fill-able position. Taco Bell: call me. We’ll talk. Think deconstructed Crunchy Gordita only not disgusting like yours. Think delicious.